


Boredom in the Bookshop

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Little Shit, DOES NOT reference the TV show, Gen, I apologise for the large number of footnotes, I wrote this ten years ago but never posted it, Is This Gen? Is It Slash? Who knows with these two, and the outdated references, because it was ridiculous, but I guess I'm leaning into the ridiculousness now, mostly because I haven't had the chance to watch it yet, nobody spoil it for me okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 16:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19136452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: An awful, wicked idea began to form in Crowley’s mind as he stared at Aziraphale. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have dared to put such an idea into action out of a sense of self-preservation… but he was so bored.(Being bored always impaired Crowley’s judgement, which was how, in 1850, he ended up drunk, entirely naked, painted blue, and tied to a post in the middle of Bethnal Green. Aziraphale had to rescue him. The angel still referred to the incident on occasion. Crowley wished he’d forget.)-Crowley was bored. This was never a good thing.





	Boredom in the Bookshop

** Boredom in the Bookshop **

Crowley was bored.

This was, it had to be said, a fairly rare state of being for the demon. Usually, at any hint of restlessness or boredom, he threw himself into performing malicious acts – or, more accurately, tempting humans into performing them (1).

(Despite being a demon, Crowley didn’t usually do anything outright _evil_ : it was more along the lines of inventing new and unnecessary bureaucratic policies and procedures; inspiring bands to write irritating, plastic songs that had no soul but which were painfully memorable; that sort of thing.)

On the few occasions when boredom did strike, Crowley usually just curled up and slept through it, until something more interesting came along (3).

This wasn’t an option at the moment, however, as Crowley had a number of responsibilities to keep an eye on (not to mention some fairly unhappy demons, as a result of the whole Armageddon-that-wasn’t thing). Therefore, he had decided to pay Aziraphale a visit with the idea in mind that something interesting would happen while he was there, and the intention of being the cause of said interesting event if it proved necessary. 

That was how he came to be sitting in Aziraphale’s bookshop, sipping at an espresso and watching as the angel pottered around, checking on his books and ensuring that no customers stayed for very long.

The thing about humanity is that, if a being lives amongst them for long enough (whether that being is demonic or angelic doesn’t really matter), then eventually they develop a little humanity of their own. For this reason, both Crowley and Aziraphale had their own little quirks.

In Crowley’s case, this veneer of humanity manifested as a certain sarcastic, biting wit; a lust for sleek technology; an appreciation for fine wine; and a throughly inexplicable fondness for an angel quite capable of going out in public in a bright pink waistcoat on the grounds that it was a masculine colour. (4)

With Aziraphale, the layer of humanity mostly manifested as a great partiality to tea; unfortunate sartorial taste; and an obsessive love of books, especially Rare First Editions. Over time Aziraphale had built up quite a collection (5), and he would regularly check that all of his books were correctly categorised and in good condition (6), often pausing to read sections of them as he went.

Now, Crowley paused in discontent as he watched Aziraphale standing at the top of his rickety stepladder, flipping through an 18th century tome on philosophy which he was supposedly checking the condition of (7).

“You know,” Crowley said idly, “I prefer films to books, mostly.”

“Don’t start that again,” Aziraphale said absently.

“Especially film adaptations of popular novels,” Crowley went on, watching Aziraphale to see his reaction.

He saw Aziraphale frown, but the angel continued turning the pages of his book, ignoring Crowley.

“But what I really, really like, are the movie novelizations. Did you know, they’ve started writing novelisations of films, that are based on _books?_ ” 

Crowley saw the flinch from the angel, and carefully hid a smirk. He kept his tone casual.

“I’ve read some of them. They’re _awful_. And just think, entire generations are being raised on these novelizations, the original tale twisted and dumbed down into something that migth have been written by someone with the linguistic skills of a five year old–”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale said his name through gritted teeth. Crowley didn’t say anything more on the topic, but watched in satisfaction as a little muscle in the angel’s jaw twitched.

He allowed the silence to draw out for a while, letting Aziraphale return peacefully to his book.

Only when some time had passed did Crowley speak again.

“You know, the Harry Potter craze was bad enough, especially once Adam got involved (9), but at least it was literature, more or less. Even I wince when I hear the word _Twilight_ , now.” 

Aziraphale shut his book with a gentle _snap_ , and turned his head to glare at Crowley.

“My dear, if you do not practice some self-restraint, you will regret it,” said Aziraphale, in a voice which promised terrible fates.

Crowley subsided, and went back to watching the angel and sipping at his cup of coffee.

Aziraphale put the book back on the shelf and climbed down the ladder, moving the ladder to a different section where he immediately climbed the ladder again, his bare feet collecting quite a coating of dust. But the angel had always found himself steadier on his feet on the rickety ladder when he didn’t have his shoes on – ever since he’d slipped the one time, and ended up spraining his shoulder.

The sprain been miracled away, of course, but since then Aziraphale had climbed the ladder barefoot. It looked a little silly though, seeing Aziraphale without shoes or socks on, his bare heels barely sticking over the edge of the step.

An awful, wicked idea began to form in Crowley’s mind as he stared at Aziraphale. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have dared to put such an idea into action out of a sense of self-preservation… but he was _so bored_. 

(Being bored always impaired Crowley’s judgement, which was how, in 1850, he ended up drunk, entirely naked, painted blue, and tied to a post in the middle of Bethnal Green. Aziraphale had to rescue him. The angel still referred to the incident on occasion. Crowley wished he’d forget.)

Crowley smoothly changed into his oldest physical form, and slid out of his chair.

A serpent with shiny, pitch-black scales and a crimson belly moved forward, towards the step ladder.

Silently winding his way up the ladder, Crowley paused for a moment to savour his feeling of anticipation. Then, very lightly, he flicked his tongue over the exposed part of Aziraphale’s foot.

Aziraphale let out a shriek and shot up into the air, bringing Crowley a moment of intense, gleeful satisfaction, before gravity brought the angel back down again, right on top of the snake.

“ _CROWLEY!_ ” Aziraphale yelled, sounding furious. Crowley didn’t respond, mostly because he’d just had all of the air squashed out of him, and was feeling distinctly the worse for wear.

“What were you _thinking?_ ” the angel demanded. Crowley only gave a pained hiss, and wished the angel would get off him.

None too soon, Azirphale tutted angrily and climbed to his feet and off Crowley, brushing dust off his tweed coat.

Crowley just lay there, and stared at the angel pathetically.

“And don’t look at me like that,” Aziraphale snapped, not at all taken in by his wiles. “I don’t know why you would think that was a good idea.”

Now that the boredom had been replaced by pain, Crowley couldn’t think why, either.

“I wasss bored,” said the snake. He tried to move, to coil himself, and winced as it felt like he’d been stabbed. “Ouch. That _hurtsss_.”

Aziraphale huffed.

“It’s your own fault, you know. Don’t expect me to help you.”

Crowley did his best to look sad (which wasn’t difficult, under the circumstances), and stuck his head under one of the loops of his long body. He listened to Aziraphale’s footsteps recede.

A few minutes later the footsteps returned, and gentle hands lifted Crowley up, and arranged him in a large and blanket-lined laundry carry-basket.

Crowley hissed in some relief at the heat radiating from the hot water bottle hidden beneath the blankets.

“You, my dear, Aziraphale murmured, “are incorrigible. I don’t know why I bother with you.”

But Aziraphale’s hand stroked back from Crowley’s nose and down along his spine, taking any sting from the words. 

“Make life interesssting,” said Crowley, trying not to writhe in pleasure at the gentle touch, because he had some dignity left, thank you. “Love me really.”

Several minutes passed before Aziraphale said softly, “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Then:

“But do anything like that _again_ and I shall turn your Bentley pink and replace the upholstery with leopard print, Crowley.”

Crowley grinned as best as he could in his current form, but heeded the warning.

* * *

_ Footnotes: _

(1)This wasn’t particularly hard; Crowley was very good at it (2).

(2)He had discovered quite a long time ago now, that the secret to being good at temptation was simply to encourage people to do _what they already wanted to do_ , deep in their heart of hearts.

(3) He once lost an entire century that way. When he woke up, he found that a really nifty thing called an automobile had been invented, and that at some point Aziraphale had developed a fondness for tweed. (There was a negative side to everything.)

(4) At one point in history, pink – being a watered-down shade of red – had been considered to be a masculine colour, while blue was the colour of the Blessed Virgin, and therefore feminine. Sadly, times had changed since then, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to have noticed.

(5) It was disguised as a bookstore. Crowley had, in the past, wondered whether this was an attempt on Aziraphale’s part to convince himself that he didn’t feel either covetousness or desire when it came to his beloved books.

(6) They always were, though. Funny, that.

(7) It was a Rare First Edition. The biggest reason why Aziraphale had so many Rare First Editions was that he tended to buy them when they were still brand-new: this book, for example, had a hand-written note from the author written on the flyleaf (8).

(8) A discussion between the author and Aziraphale had inspired a number of the thoughts detailed within the volume.

(9) Adam’s boundless imagination had been caught by the detailed world created in the Harry Potter books. Somehow, when the final book had been released, it had found its way into every bookstore in Britain, even those which hadn’t ordered any copies (10), and spontaneous Harry Potter parties had sprung up everywhere. 

(10) Aziraphale had been most distressed to find eleven copies of Deathly Hallows in his shop window, that day. (Crowley _had_ enjoyed the Harry and the Potters concert, however.)

**Author's Note:**

> _Hypothetically speaking, if I happened to have another, even more ridiculous fic from ten years ago in this fandom that I never posted... would anyone want me to post it?_
> 
> ETA: Okay, so I posted it a few days ago - it's called [All Roads Lead To You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19147447/chapters/45507877).


End file.
